


Trick Your Lovers

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: salt_burn_porn, Dubious Consent, F/M, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's out of options, she's offering a solution.  - Dean/Abaddon, coercion and therefore dubious consent, fingering, mild humiliation and painplay. Vague spoilers for S9.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trick Your Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Balder12 tagged me with "when the day melts down to a sleepy red glow". How I got from that to this, I have absolutely no idea. It ran away with me? 
> 
> Tebtosca looked this over and twoskeletons helped me brainstorm beforehand. Thanks to you both! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from "Undisclosed Desires" by Muse.

Dean parks a little ways from the address she gave him, turning off the ignition and listening to the clicking noise the Impala's engine makes when it cools. There's still time to turn around, go back, come up with a different plan. Or any plan at all, really; this hardly deserves the name. He's playing right along, coming when she calls, no backup strategy or escape routes. Desperation, that's what this is. Pure and simple. 

He runs a hand down his face, closes his eyes and blinks them open again. His eyes are burning. He can't remember the last time he slept; must have been some time before Crowley took Jody. How long has it been since they blew the trials and the angels fell and Sam landed himself in a hospital bed? Dean doesn't know. He checks the address on the scribbled notepad once more before he marches up the driveway of an abandoned mansion. It must have been quite charming, back in the day, with all its decorative nooks and crannies. Now it's just old and sad and overgrown by ivy, the garden in its front yard dried up and shriveled. 

She's nowhere in sight so he lets himself in. The door creaks when he pushes down the handle, a sound straight from an old horror movie that echoes in his ears. It leads into a long, empty hallway, dark except for a ray of light that falls through a small window above the front door. There are only a few pieces of furniture left inside, scattered and discarded, everything covered in a thick layer of dust that causes him to cough after a few steps. At the end of the hallway there's another door, this one hanging off its hinges and half ajar, revealing a spacious lobby with a wide staircase at the other end. 

Abaddon's sitting on the stairs, halfway up. She's twirling a strand of red hair around her forefinger, looking both bored and fascinated at the same time, and doesn't look up although he's sure she noticed him way before he saw her. 

“You took your time,” she says. “Almost thought you'd change your mind and stand me up.” 

He runs through a number of quippy comebacks in his mind, but finds he's too tired for crap like that. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and smirks. “I've never cut out on a date. Not gonna start now.” 

“And they say twenty-first century men have no manners.” Abaddon smiles, like a serpent grinning down at a rat's attempts to escape her grip. She's got him exactly where she wants him, and they both know it. She finally looks at him, pats the space next to her. “What are you waiting for? Come over here.” 

He obeys, climbing up the stairs until he's reached the one she's sitting on, then lowering himself down next to her. His first instinct is to sit as far from her as he can, put some distance between the two of them, but that'd be, well. Counterproductive. 

“Good boy.” She puts a hand on his knee, pats it once before glaringly red lacquered nails dig into the flesh hard enough to hurt. He doesn't stop her, doesn't make a sound. In all honesty, he didn't expect this to go over without a few cuts and bruises. 

Abaddon stands up abruptly, pats the dust off her skin-tight jeans and extends a hand toward him. He takes it – of course he does, resistance is only going to make this worse – and walks down the stairs with her. He follows her gaze when she looks around until her eyes finally settle on a ratty couch that's boxed into a corner underneath the stairway. With a tug of his hand, she starts for it and lets herself fall onto the cushions with a cloud of dust rising up around her, but stops him when he's about to follow her down. 

“No,” she says, her tone cold and all command, and flaps a hand vaguely at his torso. “First you've got to show me you mean it. You could be hiding all kinds of weapons in those layers, right?” 

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what she wants, and Dean has a hand on his belt buckle before she can specify, earning himself an appreciative wink as he peels out of his jeans. He doesn't make a show of it, undresses quickly, no desire to draw this out. For one thing, he doesn't know how much time Sam's got left, and then... well. The quicker it's over, the better. When he's naked, he steps out of the pool of his clothes around him, bundling them up and throwing them to the side. She still hasn't said anything, just glares at him, that cruel and somewhat amused smile playing at her lips again. Her eyes fall down to his crotch, and she tsks. “Not all too excited, are we?” 

He's not. He knows that's got to change, but stripping down in front of demon isn't his idea of a good time. But, in for a penny, in for a pound, and instead of pointing that out he makes a step towards the couch, another when that doesn't prompt a reprimand. He kneels down on it, close enough that he can lean in for a kiss. Might as well get this show on the road. 

He's not prepared for it when she snakes a hand between his legs, fondling him, without even breaking the kiss. He flinches away, but she grabs his chin, holds it in place while she keeps licking into his mouth, wet and messy. Her hands are warm, more so than he imagined from a demon, and she knows what she's doing, gently rolls his balls against each other while she cups them with the palm of her hand. He closes his eyes, almost able to ignore why he's here, what it is that he's doing, who he's with. 

When she notices that, she pulls away, squeezes painfully between his legs. “Keep your eyes open. Look at me. I don't want you to drift away.” 

His eyes fly open while he swallows a pained hiss, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of showing how much it hurts. He nods, biting his lips, but can't quite help the shudder when she releases him and scrapes a nail down the skin behind his balls with barely any pressure, then rubs at it with her thumb. It's not bad, not really, but she's got him out of his depth, nerves flaring, not knowing whether to expect pleasure or pain. 

Her other hand closes around his neck, draws him back in for another kiss while her fingers curl around his still mostly limp cock, pressing around the base with two fingers at first, then moving up and down when he slowly fills. The position is awkward, he's balancing on his knees and braced on the backrest with one arm. He almost loses his balance more than once before she lets up, breaking the kiss, and motions for him to turn around. Dean moves to sit, expecting her to climb onto his lap, but she stops him. 

“Oh no, sweetie. Not going to happen. If you think I'm going to let you sully this body with your human stink, you're way wrong.” She looks him up and down, eyes catching on his now-hard cock, and her face wrinkles up in disgust. “On all fours, legs spread.” 

Dean complies – what choice does he have – and feels his face redden despite himself when she pulls his ass cheeks apart, although he doesn't quite know if it is with humiliation or fear. He lets his head fall down between his shoulders when her fingers edge down his crack until they find his hole, and he's not delusional enough to hope for lube. They are wet, though, probably saliva, but it still hurts when she maneuvers the first finger inside. 

His head snaps back up and he feels his whole body tense, muscles locking up, tries to breathe and relax. He looks through the dirty window next to the staircase, thinks that's going to be one of the things about this he'll remember clearly later: the dark red glow of the setting sun over the yard, almost surreal in its intensity. His subconscious takes the sight and the sensations and runs with both, threads them with memories from the pit, of decades in a realm that was almost constantly bathed in similar colors. 

He shakes his head to get rid of that thought. It's not going to help him any. Besides, this is different. He came here willingly. After some persuasion, sure, but... Not the same thing. At all. 

She pulls her finger out to spit on her hand again, comes back with two, and the burn shoots up his spine like an electric current. Patience doesn't appear to be one of her virtues, and she's going too fast, not giving him enough time to adjust, but his body doesn't react as he'd have expected. If anything, he's getting harder, his hips going along with the movement of her fingers inside of him in tiny thrusts, forward and backwards. He's dying for a hand on his cock, anything to counteract the pain, but he needs both his hands to not fall onto his face and she doesn't seem too interested in jerking him off. She's rough, opening him up, a nail scrapping at his rim while she scissors her fingers inside him, and every fresh wave of pain revs him up more. It's like a trance, his brain interpreting all the signals wrong, and he can't think straight, can't figure out if this is all him, if hell rewired his body so much that getting hurt arouses him, or if it's her, some sort of mind fuck to make him like what she does to him. 

What's worse, he's rapidly approaching the point where he doesn't give a damn. His body is on fire, in the best ways and the worst. He spreads his legs wider, giving her better access, thrusting into thin air in synch with the flicks of her wrist, and the whispered plea is past his lips before he can swallow the words. 

She stops instantly, doesn't withdraw her fingers but doesn't move them anymore either. “What was that?”

There's a mocking edge to her voice that makes his face burn with shame. “Nothing,” he lies. 

“Oh, I do believe I heard you say something,” she taunts, her fingers twisting once in all the right ways. “Say it again, and I might indulge you.” 

He closes his eyes tightly before he remembers she forbade him to do that and stares straight ahead instead, out of that damn window, onto the yard and those damn dead and withered plants. “Please. I said please.” 

“Ah. See, I thought I heard you beg. Do that again, and you might get what you want.” 

He doesn't want to. He won't. He's not going to sink that far, to whine and beg, not even when her free hand comes up to brush against his balls, still swollen and sensitive from when she squeezed them together earlier. Dean shivers as she moves inside of him again, deeper than before, sweet pressure exactly where it's good. He rocks back and forth on her fingers, trying to keep silent, salvage what's left of his dignity. 

It's a losing battle. When she adds a third finger, the additional stretch renewing the burn while she keeps her fingers right on target, he can't hold it in anymore. He needs _more_ , doesn't care what she's going to think, how it'll make him look. He's teetering on the edge, and he's aching with it, and he can't stand this much longer. “Touch me. My cock. Just... Please. _Please._ ”

He's almost stupidly grateful when she doesn't say anything, doesn't comment or mock, just wraps her hand around his cock, briefly playing with the pool of precome at the head before she jerks him off hard and fast. His whole body's moving with it, strung out between the pressure inside him and the pressure around him, and it hardly takes a minute until he shudders and comes. 

When comes back to himself, she's removed her fingers, and he turns his head just in time to see her wiping them on his overshirt, the expression on her face more disdainful than ever. “You pathetic sack of bones.” 

Dean tries to sit up, cover himself and make a grab for his clothes, but finds himself pinned and unable to move. _Shit._

“Giving yourself up like that, begging for more, have you got no shame?” Her fingers absently stroke past his hole, down to his balls and back up, but not in a way that's meant to rile him up anymore. This is about power, and control, and proving she's the one who's holding both. “You did beg beautifully, though, so I guess you earned your reward.” 

He feels the couch dip when she gets up, hears her footsteps when she walks around to the other end of it and bends down so her face is level with his, presses one last kiss to his lips before she straightens up to rummage around in her purse. 

“Try this ritual,” she says as she lets an ancient-looking piece of paper sail down onto the cushions in front of him. “No guarantees, angel business isn't my area of expertise, but it should at least get that brother of yours out of his coma. You owe me one, don't forget that.” 

Without another look back at him, she heads out of the lobby and down the hallway, keeping Dean immobile until she's out of sight.


End file.
